


The Laundry Baron

by Amoreanonyname



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), Dean misses Sam's musk, Dirty Little Secret, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, HARD gen, M/M, No Smut, POV Dean Winchester, Pining, Quote: Sam and Dean Winchester are psychotically irrationally erotically codependent on each other, Scent Kink, Scenting, Wincest - Freeform, gencest, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:54:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25602406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amoreanonyname/pseuds/Amoreanonyname
Summary: When they’d first moved into the bunker, Dean took over laundry duty for them both. There were some very good reasons for this. And some very… less good reasons.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 31
Kudos: 184





	The Laundry Baron

**Author's Note:**

> Thinking of certain peeps in my SPN family who love some scent-related stuff. ;) Not quite ABO or anything, but Dean's got a bit of a weakness.

When they’d first moved into the bunker, Dean took over laundry duty for them both. There were some very good reasons for this. And some very… less good reasons. 

Okay, so good reason: Sam was a goddamn savage. The kid had grown up re-wearing everything until it practically stood up on its own, then learned to toss it all together into some half-functioning machine at a laundromat. Dean was surprised that even at Stanford, Sam never seemed to learn how to do laundry _properly_ , but then again, he supposed dorm-room laundry rooms weren’t so great either. He was also surprised that Sam had never learned with _her_ , you know, that year… but apparently he hadn’t. 

Anyway, Sam was terrible at laundry. He knew how to throw everything into one washing load and dump soap on top and hope for the best. He didn’t know about separating colors, or light versus heavy fabrics, let alone how to iron. Neither of them had learned that stuff growing up.

Whereas, apparently Lisa had had higher standards for Dean. If he was going to live with her, he was going to damn well contribute to the running of the house, and that included cooking and laundry. Lisa had been thankfully understanding that Dean’s, uh, past, hadn’t included an education on the finer points of housekeeping, but she taught him, and expected him to learn. And so he did. 

So, it made sense that once they had a regular place to do laundry, after seeing Sam damn near wreck their fed suits, he just took it over.

But that wasn’t the only reason Dean did the laundry. He had other, guiltier reasons.

Sam had approximately ten thousand grey and black undershirts, not that he’d counted. Sam had never counted them either. Which meant Sam never noticed if any particular nondescript, Sam-smelling shirt disappeared.

Then again, Dean was on a cycle now where he put in the one he’d been keeping whenever he took out another one, so the numbers would always come up the same anyway if Sam ever decided to be a weirdo and count. 

When they moved into the bunker, for the first time in their lives, they slept in separate rooms. It was a good thing, really. Long overdue for them both. 

The only times they’d ever slept separately were when they’d _lived_ separately, which generally meant they were either not speaking to each other, or one of them was dead. 

It was good, really. They needed separate rooms. Dean loved having his own room.

Dean sort of hated it. 

Yes, he loved having his own room, and he knew they were both absolutely safe in the bunker. But he could never quite manage to turn off 30 years of hearing Sam snore two feet beside him. Tangible proof he was safe, and with him, and alright. 

They still slept in motels on the regular. On those nights, they shared, they did like they always did. Talked late into the night, fell asleep listening to each other breathe. Knowing the other was within arm’s reach, grabbing distance if anything happened - _anything_ could be a monster, or a nightmare, or a flashback, or a sudden brainwave cracking whatever case they were working on. 

Back in the bunker, there was none of that. Blessed privacy, and blessed silence. 

Lots and lots of silence.

No snoring brother beside him at night.

No late-night conversations.

No brother to grab onto when the dreams got bad, if something went wrong.

No Sam nearby.

And Dean knew he wasn’t supposed to actually _admit_ that not having Sam within three feet of him gave him insomnia, even if it was true, even if they both knew it. So he found another way.

He was kind of a sick fuck. But it helped him sleep at night.

He’d snatch one of Sam’s undershirts out of the laundry. The ranker, the better. They both still tended to wear clothes until they were absolutely fucking gross - old habits die hard - so invariably some of their stuff would be pretty raunchy by the time it made it to the washer. That didn’t include stuff that had had so much blood and guts sprayed all over it, they had to go right into the trash, double-bagged. If there was anything Sam had exercised in, so much the better.

He would stash it under his pillow. And every night, after they’d turned in, like the pathetic bastard he was, he’d take out that shirt. Rank Sam-smell, his Old Spice deodorant, a bit of his fancy shampoo, his sweat, his own friggin _musk_ (Dean couldn’t believe he was using that word, but that’s what it was). He was careful to never actually fall asleep holding the damn thing, in case Sam did end up barging in. But a few good whiffs, and Dean could be out like a light. His own fucked up aromatherapy. 

Not that it happened often, but occasionally Sam would spend a night _away_ from the bunker. Once or twice, helping people on cases, or that time he and Cas took that one weirdass case where he’d wound up _married_. If Sam wasn’t around at all, Dean got a bit more shameless.

Sam had just assumed he’d lost those old hoodies years ago. But goddamn if Dean didn’t sleep like a baby every time he wore one. They’d long since stopped smelling like Sam, but something about them was comforting. 

Anyway, so that was why Dean did the laundry. His own gross little secret. 

Loading some clothes into the washer, Dean frowned a little. He thought he’d worn more shirts than that this week.

Huh. Guess not. Or maybe he’d just lost one on the road somewhere. That happened a lot. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! As always, feedback is life!


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